Haven't been around in quite a while. For a number of reasons. Not the least of which is my stubborn underemployment. But I'm finding things to occupy my time and my mind. Joined a local writers' group. Went to my first meeting last week. It was a shot in the arm. Can't wait to return.

Have gotten positively obsessive about exercise, walking 5 miles as often as 6 times a week.

My latest attempt to escape the doldrums of my life? Yoga. Can't really afford to pay for classes, but a friend who can, invited me for the month of December. "Bring a friend all month!" A promotional gig. The hope, of course, is that you'll fall in love with it and won't be able to resist opting for a paying membership. You can't draw blood from a stone, as they say, so free December is it for me.

Three times a week for an hour and 15 minutes I enter an alternative universe at a place unimaginatively called "Yoga Yoga," full of yoga vegan babies, middle-aged women trying to cope with that fact, a spattering of men, which I haven't quite been able to peg, stressed out young mothers, and young nubile girls with no hips.  My friend and I fall into the middle-aged category.

She'd been raving about the effect yoga was having on her and nudged me repeatedly to come. I've never attempted it before and my schedule is pretty much open these days, so I accepted her invitation.

I've been about 6 times so far and here are my random observations/thoughts.

• I need to get over my all-consuming paranoia about what I might look like from behind in tight knit yoga pants as I bend over into the downward dog position. Women who I'm sure must be forced to pay for two airline seats when they fly, apparently have no qualms about their appearance in said pants. I need to get over myself.
• On my own, I never really relax. Not really. Not in the way you're forced to in yoga. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but twice now, I've fallen asleep during "shavasna." Also creepily referred to as the "corpse pose."  Fifteen minutes of forced relaxation as you lay prone on the floor. The teacher's voice tricks me into relaxing. I'm beginning to wonder if it's group hypnosis.
• Before each class, the teacher goes around the room and asks individually how we're doing, what our energy level is and if we have any physical complaints. I don't even like discussing such things with my doctor. And I abhor being the center of attention. Even if I had sailor's knots running up and down my spine, I wouldn't open up about it to a class of strangers. I always say, "I'm fine."
• It's a bit like Simon  Says, only the instructions can be mystifying. Some teachers are better at it than others, but you can find yourself twisted in a pretzel, about to snap, when you look around and realize you went left when you were supposed to go right. I was pretty sure I had figured out my left from my right in Kindergarten. Maybe it's been so long, I've just forgotten.
• I haven't even told my friend yet, but I occasionally get the feeling that the joke is on us. That the instructor is giving body-bending directions, just for the perverse pleasure of seeing if we'll comply. No matter how ridiculous they seem. The most recent oddball request was an exercise of closing one nostril with your thumb, release and then close the other with your ring finger, to see which side was more open. Supposed to be an indication of whether you're thinking with your right brain or left that day. Okay. And because these are yoga babies, they almost all have this smile of inner peace plastered on their faces while dispensing such nonsensical instructions. I have an innate distrust of people who smile all the time.

Having said all of that, I wish I could afford to continue the classes into 2011. Each time, I walk away feeling like I've had a deep oil massage. And, I'm almost afraid to say it, but I haven't had a migraine in 12 days. A personal record.  Perhaps there's a connection?

I'll never morph into a true, yoga, vegan baby. My cynicism and distrust run far too deep. But at least I can cross yoga off my bucket list.

 Namaste